Letters to Lyra
by Natalie Marchpane
Summary: Will, desperately missing Lyra, writes love letters to her that she will never read. V. angsty and hopelessly romantic.
1. I see you in everything

**I See You in Everything.**  
  
_A/N: A letter from Will to Lyra asking for her permission to free himself from her. Please review._  
  
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I crossed out the heading to this letter a few times. Dear Lyra seemed too redundant; I could write that to my boss, my great aunt. To: Lyra was too childish, a thing for a seven-year-old to write on a valentine. Just to put your name, the delicious, sweet Lyra, was too cold, even though those two, short syllables hold more than I can even grasp in one thought. So I left it blank, and you'll never see it. But it still needs to be perfect; it needs to be flawless to contain your name in it.  
  
I still love you, Lyra. I still dream of your hair, like dark honey-gold, your skin so pale it shone like moonlight, your wide cerulean eyes, framed with lashes dipped in ink, your cerise lips, oh, your mouth, stained the colour of the little red fruit forever. You are unbearably beautiful standing still, but, if possible, you are even more beautiful when you are moving, crouched to spring, Pantalaimon in his wildcat form, a bruise on your cheek and fire in your eyes. You are even beautiful when you are being torn away from Pantalaimon, you are even beautiful as your very soul is ripped out of your grasp. And besides your physical beauty, there is beauty in your movements, the way you brush your hair out of your eyes in one swift movement, the way the symbol-reader takes over your face.  
  
I can't stand it anymore. I can't stand how I see you in the hair of a girl at the coffee shop, in the eyes of a child I see clutching a stuffed animal, in the stance of the sculptures at the art museum. I can't stand how I avoid the mythology lectures at the college, afraid they might mention a Lyre, how the sight of a Coca-Cola makes me feel like my heart is being ripped from my chest, how the smell of an omelette makes me bite back tears. I can't stand it anymore, I can't stand my life, pining for something I am never to get.  
  
So I am getting married. Her name is Kamara, and she could not be less like you. I am marrying her because there is no way I can make comparisons between you two, because you are so different. Do I love her? Maybe. She is sweet and kind, joyful and shy. The ironic thing is, I think you two would have gotten along. There is nothing wrong with her. But how can I love her with a heart so dedicated to another? You have me bound in your grasp, and I love you. I'll never stop.  
  
I wonder how you are getting along? Do you have a husband? Does he love you as much as I do? No, that's impossible. But I hope he loves you, gives you the worship you deserve. I hope he thinks the world revolves around you, the sun rises and sets over your tawny hair.  
  
I need permission, Lyra. I need a sign from you that it is alright for me to love again. I need you to release me from your grasp, I need to release myself. I need permission to give my heart away again. I can't always live halfway between this world and yours.  
  
Love,  
  
Will


	2. Another flipping letter

**Another Flipping Letter**

Here I am, writing another flipping letter. Not that it will ever get to you. I wonder what you are doing right now. I like to think of you as thirteen, hair catching the sunlight and falling into your pale face, sitting on the bench in your Oxford, Pantalaimon curled up by your side.

Of course, that is probably not like it is everyday. No, there are days when you are sick, or worried. Maybe you have had your heart broken or caught a cold. But I think of you, and I don't think of all of the great times we had. Well, I do, of course. I still feel the taste of that fruit. But the moments I remember most are the vulnerable ones. How it made you develop a bit of fragility, unlike the tough, sturdy Lyra I knew. The moments when you were torn away from Pantalaimon, when losing a part of yourself made you gain a part of me-made us gain a little bit of each other.

Well, you know I have a wife now. Kamara. I told you that in my last letter. Of course, the letter could never have gotten to you, but I think on some level we do connect. It seems impossible to go through something like this-to love someone as much as this-and not be able to tap into their thoughts, to feel their movements.

Anyway, as I was saying- I have a wife now. And a child. I missed on our session last year, at our bench on midsummer's, because my wife-who I love so much, more than anyone in _this_ world, was having a child. She's beautiful, our child. She's got dark hair that sticks up in rather unruly angles, and enormous dark eyes and very pale skin. She's a stunner. Kamara and I had a bit of a row deciding what to call her, but in the end I won-Lyra. _Lyra Parry_. And she's beautiful, our Lyra. I'm not sure if I've loved someone that much since the last Lyra. But I hope you aren't mad about me missing our day. I don't like to think of you missing me.

But all of this is pointless. I'm not sure why I'm writing to you, it's three in the morning and I've just gotten up with the baby and now she's asleep, but I can't sleep and I'm just so tired.....

Lyra, I dreamt about you. I've never dreamt about you before, you know. The year after we left each other in the land of the mulefa, I didn't have one dream. Not one, not about you nor otherwise. I think my brain shut down, until I began to heal, because if I had dreams about you I couldn't keep living, I couldn't see you in my sleep as well as seeing you behind my eyes when I was awake. So I didn't dream. But tonight I dreamt about you, I remember it so clearly. You were standing in the world of the mulefa, and you were adult. Maybe I was just imagining you as an adult, but anyhow, you were just as beautiful as you were when you were thirteen, if not more so. You were standing under the seed-pod tree, and you weren't looking straight at me, you were looking down, and Pantalaimon was curled up at your side. I stayed, watching, for a while, as if you and Pan were just a pretty picture. I was drinking in your beauty, drinking in the intoxicating ambrosia of being with you again. You sat there for a while, in that land, and then you looked at me. You smiled softly, not surprised at all to see me, after you haven't seen me for so many years. And I realized you were holding something in your hand, something soft, and I couldn't see what it was. I craned my neck, as if to see, and then you held it out to me. When I saw what it was, I was shocked. I think I must have reeled back, seeing that little red fruit, because you reached out your slender pale hand to steady me, and right before you touched me, right before you touched my shoulder for the first time in so many years,_ so many years,_ I awoke, the taste of that fruit on my lips, and that beautiful image seared in my vision.

It was the baby's cries that woke me. And maybe it was better, maybe it was better. Because I think if you had touched me, put your beautiful soft hand to my shoulder to steady me, even in a dream, I would never, never be able to live in reality again. It does not suit us to dwell in dreams, to live in memories.

I wonder if you ever dream of me. I hope you don't, I would hate to subject you to the pain I felt tonight as I saw the little red fruit-tasted that little red fruit, and saw the beautiful hand that reached out to give it to me.

Love, (I'll never stop)

Will


End file.
